I have pondered starting a blog or diary of some sort for a few years now, but every time I sit down to write, I draw a blank. Not today. Last evening I had an interesting conversation with my hubby, and it got the wheels turning on different ideas and thoughts I have in my head. One subject we touched was patterns in my behaviour that we have noticed in the last while. We both noticed the same pattern but were seeing it from different perspectives. The said pattern is that when I am avoiding intimacy, I tend to bury my nose into a book or zone out on my cell phone. Hubby pointed out that when I am not in the mood, I distract myself with books, knowledge, and less positive subjects that tend to turn me off of intimacy. I saw his perspective, only from mine it wasn’t about avoiding intimacy. It was about avoidance of my thoughts and being generally withdrawn, which is a sign I’m in my downward spiral. Yep, I knew it. I’ve felt it for over a week now, but I was hoping the meds would stop me from falling down the rabbit hole. I asked him if he had noticed that said pattern tends to coincide with my depressive episodes.
You see, I’m different from other people. I am what you would typically call crazy. The professionals call it bipolar disorder II ultra-rapid cycling (severe form of type 2 manic depression), and borderline personality disorder. I call it my life. Sometimes I feel as if I am crazy, and at other times I feel like I am one of the last sane humans in a world gone mad. I have researched my “disorders”, among other things. Research is one of my obsessions, by the way. I now understand why my moods tend to be volatile and why I have certain quirks. Nothing takes the wind out of your sails like a psychiatrist and therapist telling you that your quirks are not actual quirks but symptoms of mental illness. I’m not unique, I’m just crazy. However, that is their perspective. I’m the one living with these “illnesses” and dammit I am going to live positively, sicknesses and all.
Oh yeah, back to my conversation with Hubby. I tend to go off on random tangents then forget where I was. Another tidbit that came up in conversation was the fact that I tend to get interrupted, cut off mid sentence. Whomever interrupts me starts talking, I’ll stop so as not to interrupt them (it must be of importance for them to cut me off like that), and the conversation continues from there without a thought to what I was originally saying. It’s been like that as long as I can remember. Even as a young child, I always wondered why people would interrupt me. I didn’t like to intrude on conversations, and I certainly waited my turn to speak. I used to think that people couldn’t hear me, I was not loud enough. I raised my voice, and it didn’t change a thing. I just recently turned thirty, and nothing’s changed. My kids interrupt me multiple times throughout the day. I don’t get upset with them, they are my children and usually they interject because they’re so animated about the conversation it’s as if their thoughts being contained are hurting them so they need to release it, even if that means interrupting Momma.
That topic got me thinking of how many of my friends don’t listen to me when I talk, yet expect me to listen to them for hours on end about anything and everything. I am lucky, for Hubby is my best friend. We are always there for each other, when one of us is weak the other is the uplifting rock. I am also lucky to have a supportive family (both his and mine), and a few besties. My other friends are just that, other friends. I’m their “therapist”, I just don’t charge them for my hours. Lately, I’ve been debating it. When all is well with them or I need someone to listen or talk to for advice, they vanish. I know when things go sour for them, because my cell phone will go off with texts and phone calls. All of a sudden I’m popular! Time to put on the kettle for tea, I’m having a visitor. My visit turns out to be several hours of a friend venting and bitching about whatever is their issue of the day/week/month. I’ll try and get in a few words, whether it’s advice, my opinion, sympathy, relating to them, etc…. I can barely say a peep. Texting is much easier to get my point across, for it is rather difficult to ignore a bubble of words glaring at you. When I do manage to talk, I know they can hear me. Once their crisis has been averted and I have made them laugh, it’s time for them to vanish. Oh, would you look at the time? Gotta run, thanks for listening, you’re the best! What would I do without you? You’re the only one who understands. You’re the only one who listens. I’ve heard all of it. But, do they ever hear me? How do I make myself be heard? Maybe I’m not supposed to voice my thoughts. Nah… I’m too bitchy, sarcastic, and dirty minded to keep quiet. Oh, you’ve seen nothing yet.
Where was I? I talked about interrupting and not being able to be listened, alright then, onto my next thought bubble. I think I have been viewing this from the wrong perspective. Perhaps I need to view this from a more positive point. I tend to feel invalidated whenever I am used as a shoulder to lean on, an ear to listen, a therapist. I feel used and abused when the same people I drop practically anything for when they need something are never able to return the favour when I need someone. Maybe I should feel happy that they chose me as the person they need to uplift their spirits. I am their candle of light in a world of darkness. I am their sparkle in the shadow. I am no hero or saviour, that’s for damned sure. These friends are not the type of people who use others like Kleenex and throw them away. These are friends that come over for barbeques, our husbands are buddies (I’m buddies with the hubbies too), and our children play together. My friends are not heartless, nor selfish – well, not completely anyway. One friend is rather selfish but she has a multitude of her own issues and I don’t think she can really see past herself to notice that the world does in fact revolve around the sun and not her. But that’s another story for another post.
I think I know my purpose in life; I am a helper. I don’t need the spotlight, nor do I want it. I am the sparkle of guidance. Time and time again, I help others by listening, offering comfort, and guidance. I have been thanked more than once for being the only one there for them. They’re not alone. I don’t think anyone is ever completely alone; it’s that they are putting up mental walls and shutting people out. I just know how to bust through the walls.
Perhaps this is all crazy talk, but maybe it’s not. Maybe it does make sense. It makes sense to me right now. I don’t know. Knowing me, my moods will flip and I’ll think up something else crazy and unconventional that doesn’t make sense to anyone but me. Who knows?